‘Mzungu, mzungu,’ they whisper in excited breaths. ‘How are you?’ They stare at me, waiting for a response, their huge white smiles beaming. When I respond in Swahili they are first silent, confused as to why a white woman is speaking to them in their mother tongue, and then there is an eruption of giggles.
Wading ankle deep through the slushy trash, the sun peaks its head through the clouds and I’m not sure what is worse; the garbage slum when it has been raining, or the garbage slum when the sun is shining, the heat further intensifying the already rancid smell, leaving you gagging with each breath.
I reach the peak where the houses sit wallowing, and look out across the Gioto Garbage Slum.
Vultures lurk in the distance waiting, as though they can already smell the presence of death before it has taken place.
Snouting through the garbage, he grunts in satisfaction. On his hands and knees he rummages, devouring everything in his path. He eats sloppily, leaving a shine circling his mouth.
There is an ear piercing squeal as both he and his competition come across the same item at once. He coils up onto his legs and strikes the pig in the stomach with a closed fist causing it to retreat in agony, then the boy resumes his position on all fours searching for his next fare.
He is ten, maybe twelve years old and considering his conditions, he doesn’t appear to be too malnourished. It makes me cringe to think he is one of the lucky ones, this slum at least provides him with a source of food.
As he eats, a male pig mounts a female pig behind his back and they begin to do their business. When they are finished, the male pig urinates on the spot amongst the garbage, only centimeters away from where he kneels.
He looks up at me, oblivious and smiles through a mouthful of filth. I force back a smile and quickly turn my head, blinking away the tears.
Continuing, we reach the purpose of our journey; a house visit to 49 year old Elizabeth and her eight children. She has 14 children in total but only eight live with her in her small mud brick house.
In 1986 Elizabeth was abandoned by her husband shortly after she was diagnosed with osteoarthritis. Every now and then however, he returns to their home raping and impregnating her.
Because of her arthritis, Elizabeth is almost completely bed ridden. We have therefore made the trip to Nakuru to visit her in her house where we are testing for HIV.
She welcomes us into her home and I take a seat on a single mattress pushed into the corner of an otherwise bare room. This room sleeps Elizabeth and her eight children who have immediately joined me on their bed, curious, but not cautious of the strangers in their house.
Our doctor begins to explain the procedure to Elizabeth, so I attempt to distract the children with some games.
Soon I am clapping hands with Mercy, the eldest of the children still living at home. We clap to the rhythm of a childhood song I had forgotten I knew.
She laughs, happy at having picked up a new game. ‘More, more,’ she screams with excitement.
‘Elizabeth is negative,’ the doctor boasts happily, shaking the test strip in his hand, closely examining the patient line one more time.
It’s fantastic news and there are sighs of relief all around. We begin to pack up, having now no need to test the children with their mum testing negative. Or so we think.
Looking up, I catch Elizabeth’s eye. Instead of joy, her eyes are filled with sorrow as she averts her gaze to Mercy sitting next to me on the bed.
‘Um, Mercy has also been raped by the father,’ the translator explains. Mercy looks up at me, her big brown eyes sparkling with innocence. ‘More, more,’ she coaxes, completely unaware of what we are discussing. I flash her a grin and pull her in for a hug.
She is only nine years old. Nine. Can you remember what you were doing at nine years old? I was living in the blissful ignorance that should be childhood, something that these children have completely bypassed.
We explain to Mercy that we need a small blood sample and that it won’t hurt too much. She sits on my lap and sticks out her index finger, mimicking her mother’s previous actions.
When she is pricked, she does not even flinch. She gets up from my lap, looks me in the eye with her cheeky grin and cries, ‘more, more,’ and I hope for her sake, there will be no more.
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